Just As We Remember
by SecretTwin
Summary: A little boy desperate for his elder brother's attention. A young man desperate for approval. Two men who began as children discovering the heartbreak of living and what it means to be a Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters.**

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"There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrances of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth." - Charles Dickens, _Great Expectations_

xxx

 **Date: 2 January 2015**

Mycroft is on his second cigarette. He knows there is work to be done, but the urgency is muted. He doesn't know that he lit the fag fifteen minutes ago, or that he has been standing in the same spot for over half an hour. The encumbrance of work buzzes around him, like an insect. So much work. Feeds traced, files to be hacked, satellites repositioned. So much to do for this country - his country - which he serves resolutely. Not a soldier - far too much action in that area - but a player in the game. The soldiers are his pieces, and he moves them to employ his strategy.

He has always been a strategist. He has been able to predict the moves of every human he has come across. They are all predictable, boring - _goldfish_. Pawn to G6. There is no sentiment to be found for pieces on a checkered board.

Even his family. Any sentiment towards the man and woman who raised him is lost. He has never understood it. Even as a child, he found it difficult to feel anything other than detachment towards his parents. They are simply too different from him to enjoy their company.

 _Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes._

It actually made him gag. Honestly. He has long outgrown an old lady lecturing him on the aesthetics of family. The old woman was pathetic and ordinary, and useless in the grand scheme of a calculating strategist. And yet his brother defended her. It caught him unawares, at first believing Sherlock was dumb enough to believe what she had said.

 _Though do in fact shut up._

Should he be relieved or disappointed that Sherlock did not believe in family either? Well, not their family at least.

Strategy served Mycroft well in the past. Predicting terrorist strikes, planning assassinations, protection for the highest in the land.

But for the first time in all his years in service to the Crown, he does not feel the determination to investigate the highest security threat they have seen in years. The threat is there. James Moriarty poses a danger to the United Kingdom like no other. But it is muddled for now, drifting below the surface.

Logically that is where his priorities must lie. Logically, the threat of 64 million British citizens is more important than the life of one.

Mycroft has never felt conflicted by logic. Logic is made up of facts, statistics, intelligence. All of which he has.

Sentiment, he does not. Never has.

Logically, the most important task at hand is to find out where the feed came from and trace it back to the person behind this "resurrection." But Mycroft cannot close Little Brother away until further notice like he has in the past. Not this time.

Yes, he has always kept surveillance on him, always had eyes watching ever since that one slip up in 2005. The arrangement with DI Lestrade worked well for them all. Despite Sherlock's attempts to convince him otherwise, Mycroft always saw him as the King, not really useful for strategy, very simple in moves. The goal of the King is to stay out of threat.

But then Dr. Watson entered the playing field - a move Mycroft had not predicted. Mycroft Holmes does not make mistakes. He cannot afford to in this day and age. Dr. Watson became the Queen, and DI Lestrade the Knight. The good doctor protected the simple King. No matter what Sherlock insisted about him ( _What do you think, Doctor? You were a doctor!_ ), the doctor was right ( _I was a soldier. I killed people! Captain John Watson._ ) He was a soldier, a protector.

 _Little Brother has made a friend,_ was not something an regular man would classify as dangerous, but Mycroft has seen the footage. He has seen... the _lengths_ to which Little Brother has dragged himself in order to protect his friends. And vice versa.

He didn't need to see the footage. He knows William, and yet the man would not give him the time of day if he asked.

He does not pity his brother. It was _his_ decision - a stupid one - but one that Mycroft could only watch from a distance as Little Brother drifted. He learned when they were young that William does not respond well to criticism. He only rebels and hurts himself further. It is best to not get involved.

Or, he thought it was best. But now...

He exhales, smoke pouring out of his nostrils and into the cold wind.

 _What would Dad say if he found out?_

"Anthea," he says softly.

She looks up from her phone.

"We'll want to meet with the head of MI6 and the prime ministers."

She nods.

 _You couldn't even save him._

"And attain a pardon from Her Majesty."

"Request sent, sir."

 _He is a murderer._

"Thank you."

 _You are no better._

He is trying. He tries to be a "proper big brother," as Sherlock savagely put it. He does not know what that entails. He's not sure Sherlock entirely knows either.

He does not have a Dr. Watson to explain these sorts of things.

But he knows when he has wronged William. Oh, he knows very well.

He sighs and drops the cigarette to the asphalt, grinding it under his shoe.

 _You ruined him._

His whole world unraveled because Mycroft, as always, had to prove his intelligence for stupid little Billy.

He snorts. Intelligence indeed.

And the child left behind was merely a fragment of his former self. There are still signs of William, but only when the drugs strip away the outer shell, leaving him bare, like a skinned rabbit.

William never forgave him. Rightfully so.

"Sir?" comes a tentative voice.

Anthea knows to keep to herself when he is preoccupied, but he understands her urgency. There is work to be done.

Something is always more important.

xxx

The entrance to Mycroft's memory palace is the entrance to his University's library, but far more spectacular because his extends infinitely, and is organized the way he wants. Not based upon ordinary people's needs. He won't find what he wants here though. He constructed this part when he was at school. The library contains facts which he needs to remember, files upon files of information organized neatly in the shelves he limitlessly constructs. Everything has a place here.

But not what he needs. He has to go to the part that he rarely visits, often pretends is not even there actually. But it does exist. Mycroft does not delete files unless they are useless.

The library's marble floors melt away to creaky wood, and he can smell tobacco smoke. Dad still smokes a pipe. He hasn't tried to hide it from Mum for over thirty years.

Mycroft ascends the narrow stairs to a cramped hallway and stops outside the door on his right. Just as he left it. There is a drawing of a sailboat and a crudely done stick figure with a black hat taped to the wood.

 **Doo Not Entur**

 **(That Meens Yu Mycroft)**

Mycroft doesn't know why he continually puts up with the incorrect spelling. He could have torn it down ages ago.

Instead he curls his fingers around the cold handle and eases the door open.

He has not thought about Sherlock's boyhood ever since that day. It was the agreement he chose to make with himself. There is too much there. Moments that he has gone back again and again to find out what he missed. Something long ago that he buried beneath his own self importance.

x

x

 **1981**

Time ambled lazily down a river of long days that summer. Billy seemed to have the power to slow it down, no matter how Mycroft willed the sun to cycle sooner. Mother's rule was that they weren't allowed to leave the house alone. So together they spent their days at the park, a communal pool, and in the woods grown up behind their home. Billy liked to go to the pasture across the road and fly his kite. He made it from a plastic bag and light weight wood from flag spikes sticking the ground at a nearby construction site.

That Spring, Billy had learned to ride his bike. His world expanded, and therefore Mycroft's was forced to as well. Mycroft craved rainy days, the kind with thunder and lightning. Perhaps it was cruel, but a thunderstorm meant Billy would spend the day in a fort, guarded by his Dorset soldiers in crescent around his fortress. Those days, Mycroft could finally find peace in the solitude of his room.

Anywhere Mycroft wanted to go during the dry days was nearly always a place his brother could not tolerate. The library, a building where he was overwhelmed by the lack of sound or stimulation, was too quiet for him. So father made a deal with him. Every Wednesday and Saturday when he returned from work, he walked there with Mycroft.

Father worked at a small law firm across from the pharmacy. He often brought home casework and Mycroft enjoyed sitting with him and reading through the document. It was his first experience with law. Father's cases were dull because they were predictable. Last will and testament issues, property suites, divorce papers. When he had been younger, Mycroft had imagined his father handling big court lawsuits like murder or government conspiracies. When he asked why Father never dealt with bigger cases (more money, bigger publicity and such), he said, "I don't have the resources to handle something like that."

"But it would be more interesting."

He nodded. "Maybe." And shrugged. "But sometimes we have to be content with what we're given."

Father enjoyed fiction. Mycroft didn't understand why. Reality was far more interesting. Father had tried to coax him into reading the same material, but he devoured the factual nonfiction section of the library. That summer he learned French and Italian, while Father was pouring into four-hundred-year old tragic romances by the overhead light in the kitchen. But then again, Father always was a romantic.

"What's that you've got?"

Mycroft begrudgingly held up the nicest copy that was currently available of _1984_.

Father took if from him and flipped through the pages, smiling fondly. "You'll like that one," he said.

Mycroft looked at the cover to avoid looking up. This was the first year he had been assigned reading by his teachers. If he wanted to pass the class, it was required.

"Why?"

"Because it's an imagining of what a future world might look like if the government prohibited individual thought. I read it when I worked at the bookstore."

Mycroft scrunched up his nose. Impossible. "The government cannot prevent people from having individual thought."

He nodded. "No. But the point is to prove to the reader how important it is and that it makes us who we are."

Father once had asked him why he never read anything other children read. Stories with fictional characters had no meaning in the real world, where real problems occurred. He'd known Father wouldn't understand, so he had said shortly that he didn't want to.

He tucked the book under his arm. Mycroft saw the sideways letters spelling out, _...One Flew..._ and the rest were blocked by his arm.

"Let's head home then."

Mycroft usually checked out two books at a time, limiting himself to one a day, but tomorrow Billy had a doctor's appointment and he would be able to return the book after Mass.

The doors had just clicked shut behind them when they heard, "Ted!"

Three large paper bags hunched Father Simmons over as he hobbled towards them.

Father tucked his books in the crook of his arm and held out his hand. "Father," he greeeted as they shook hands. "Good to see you."

Father was a much better liar than Mother. Mycroft liked to think that was the devious lawyer side, but truthfully there wasn't a devious bone in his body. He often heard his parents talking about leaving the church. Father Simmons' morals conflicted with theirs on several occassions.

The priest raised an eyebrow. "You'll be at service tomorrow?"

Father nodded. "Yes, yes. Sorry about last time." He clapped a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. He jumped at the contact. "Myc had an interview with the headmaster in Brighton."

Father Simmons smiled. "Congratulations." He shifted the bags to his other grip and held out his hand. Mycroft shook it, nodding like Father had. He didn't miss the stains on Simmons' hand.

The priest quickly pulled back and grasped the grocery bags again.

His smile was lopsided. He laughed. "When do you leave?"

Mycroft tightened his grip on the book. "August."

His mouth curved upward in a big smile. "You'll make something of yourself there, won't you son?"

Mycroft looked at the man's shoes then back up. His clothes were rumpled, the shirt buttoned wrong, and he could see the outline of a key in the front pocket. His and Father Simmons' gazes met. The man's eyes were pink from a night out with drinks. He blanched, making his eyes appear almost red, as if Mycroft had asked aloud what the lady's name was.

Of course Mycroft knew about Simmons' "practices". Mum and Dad danced precariously around the subject like was still a child. Even Billy wasn't entirely clueless. Of course he was convicted that the female species was extinct beyond Mother and Gramma. They had no other female relatives to speak of, and Billy was not yet in school. No neighboring girls with whom he could spend time.

Mycroft had now twice caught the little wanker in the toilet with his hand down his pants. Not in an overtly sexual manner, he knew, but mere curiosity it would seem. Mycroft had slammed his hand on the door and Billy's head shot up, red faced and eyes wide and shameful, hand still down the crotch of his pants. One would think he had just been caught shitting in the tub.

He had tried to deny it, but Mycroft wouldn't let him. "Do it in your room, or don't do it at all," he had said. At least it was he who caught him. Not their parents.

Father had caught him once, tugging on himself in the den. He said boys who self abuse go to hell. And then of course the business with Father Simmons happened and Mycroft discredited everything his father had ever said to him. Billy was different though. The last thing they needed was a child who stuck his hand down his pants willy-nilly whenever he felt like it. It was Mycroft's job to teach him these things, whether he liked it or not.

And he, of course, had known about sexual intercourse since he was eight. He knew the signs. Father Simmons exhibited many.

Simmons coughed. "Lovely to see you both." He nodded at Father again. "Tommorow."

"Ta." He watched Simmons' retreating form with a curious expression. "Odd fellow," he murmured. Of course Father didn't recognize any of the signs. Any obvious observation went completely over his head. He patted Mycroft's back and they continued on their way.

They crossed onto Carver Road when Father spoke again.

"You know Mum's proud of you."

"Is she?"

He nodded. "We were thinking about getting you a gift. For all the work you've put into your education. We talked about maybe a violin, or... well I'm asking because we don't rightly know what -"

"My own Stowaway."

"Oh!" His eyebrows raised. Mycroft could see him thinking about it. For months now, he had been saving his chore money. He appreciated music, especially Father's, but Billy was always hiding the Walkman. It had been a Christmas gift, and Mummy had told them: "Share it." Five times because Billy kept stealing it away. But that had never been an easy virtue for either of them.

Anything Mycroft had, Billy needed too, and Mummy would make them sit in the time out room until they learned to share what it was that needed sharing. Once it was the last slice of Gramma's upside down cake. They didn't come out of the time out room until Billy started peeing out the window. He couldn't reach the ledge so Mycroft had to hold him up so he could aim outside.

Father ended up eating the pie. Mummy threw a fit, saying that _the boys_ needed to learn to share. Which was ridiculous. Billy was the one who needed to accept that he couldn't have everything.

They were passing the church and cemetery. "So..." He pursed his lips. "Mum?"

Father nodded. "Yes. She's excited for you."

Mycroft snorted. "Like when I won the award and topped the test scores, right?"

"Of course! She's proud of you."

"I know."

Mummy was a proud woman, with reason. There was no fault in that.

She had published her third book on quantum mathematics before she gained her doctorate in 1960. She was older than most mothers, even Billy could see that. She had some lines around her eyes, and her hair was starting to gray around the temples. Again, not a fault. Children were not a priority for her early on.

What Mycroft did not understand was why he always felt like rubbish when he compared himself to her. In practicality, there was no need to compare himself. He was who he was, and there was no changing that. And his mother was a grand woman, a practical choice for one to model himself after. But her appreciation was a difficult, fickle thing.

"I'm proud of you too."

Mycroft stomach twisted. It always did when someone said it.

He did care about the man beside him, but he always got a funny feeling in his chest whenever Father spent time with him, like the time the dog had rested his head on his shin when he had been reading. The dog was inclined to show affection whenever it wanted. Mycroft had not fed it, or pet it, or played with it. Billy had been napping, so perhaps it had come in search of affection. Mycroft loathed attention seekers, so he ignored the dog, and yet he stayed at his side and would not go away. But the feeling had stayed with him. The dog wanted nothing, was simply content to just lay by his feet.

Father behaved the same way with certain people. Gramma, Mycroft and Billy, and Mother.

He remembered the first time he had beaten him at chess. He had called to Mother from his study. She asked if Father had let him win.

Father scoffed. "I haven't let him since he was seven." He smiled across at Mycroft. "Nope. Big Man's gotten good."

Mother hummed. "It was a match against you dear, don't stoke your ego too much now."

Mycroft still played with Father. He could settle after a day of school and they could sit in unified silence as they concentrated on their game. He sometimes played Mother, but it wasn't fun with her. With Mother, it wasn't a game, but battle. If Mycroft did not win, dinner would taste bland and his stomach felt like it was tying itself in knots. He was certain she tampered with his portions because everyone else seemed to eat with more gusto, especially her.

He did not play to beat Father, but if he did it was okay. Father never made him feel small.

He had a funny smile now. "What's that look for?"

Mycroft started, having realized he had been staring at the man for far too long now. He blinked up at him.

Father raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

"You don't count."

Simply, matter of factly. Mycroft did not lie. Lies only led to trouble and required unnecessary effort. And so he told the truth.

Father stopped, his brows furrowed, mouth set in a straight line. His eyes had a haunted look to them, thunderclouds rolling in. Perhaps he should not have said that aloud.

Why should his father's opinion of him be worth anything? It added nothing to his progress in school or to himself.

But when he glared at him, a terrible look really, Mycroft's stomach balled itself into an ice block.

He laid a palm over Mycroft's shoulder and squeezed. He had his full attention now. Father never touched him for more than a few seconds unless he was meant to listen to him.

He met his eyes.

"People who think others are less than them wind up being very lonely, son." He touched his breast pocket where his glasses rested.

Regret.

What could his father possibly have to regret? He had everything a Briton needed to be successful. A wife, middle class earnings, an old family name.

His father must have understood the confusion, for his glowering eyes softened and he let out a slow breath.

"I know you don't get along with us sometimes, but we've worked to have this life, and you could just as easily been born to people who couldn't give a rat's arse about your education." He motioned towards their home. "I know Mum doesn't..." He leaned against the gate. "She's had it difficult. I remember when we were younger and she always wanted to be the best. She put certain things above others." The corner of his mouth worked up, but his eyes were still troubled. "But she loves you, and wants the best for you, even if she has a hard time showing it."

His hand left Mycroft's shoulder and he flipped open the gate latch.

"I just want you to know that. And all we ask it that you return us the same courtesy."

Father opened the gate. The stiff metal let out a screech before it slammed shut.

Mycroft watched him from the other side of the gate. He wasn't lonely. Father's tone implied that loneliness was some terrible fate. But he was alone all the time, and it never hurt him. He rather preferred it to people.

A dull pounding caught his attention and he looked up to see Billy slapping his hands against the window pane. He must have been shouting, but Mycroft couldn't hear him from that distance.

He wasn't ready to go in yet, so he turned his back to Billy and opened his book to page one. And, as it was with every book he engaged with, the background faded to silence.

x

x

To Be Continued

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 **Please Review if you liked it.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own the characters from BBC Sherlock.**

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The summer of 1981 was the year that Mother took them to see _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. Mycroft was never fond of the cinema, far too many people to truly enjoy a film. And Billy played hell if he had to sit too long. One of the last films he had been to that he actually enjoyed was _The Empire Strikes Back_ the year before. Billy hadn't gone to see that one, so it was all the more reason that he enjoyed that film infinitely more than _A New Hope_.

Father had taken him to see it. He had said they were within the cusp of history because they had witnessed the greatest films ever created in cinema.

On their way home, Mycroft caught himself humming the theme.

He may not enjoy certain films for their ludicrous plots or cheap characters, but he could appreciate the scores.

John Williams composed the most memorable of soundtracks in all of cinema history. A movie can be just a movie, but it takes a memorable score to make an impression upon people. Mycroft has witnessed scores imprint themselves into pop culture and become history. He remembers the one summer they went to the beach and Billy would not stop humming the theme from _Jaws_. Or how many times he'd been in the shower, and Mycroft had ripped the curtain back to the score of _Psycho_. Perhaps he had something to do a bit with brother's paranoia in later years.

 _Raiders_ certainly left an impression with his brother. The day they got back from the cinema, Billy fashioned his own whip with a branch taped to the body of the rubber snake Mum used to scare away birds. It was the most ingeniously improveised weapon of torutre he had ever seen denied by a four year old. Certainly, if Bily ever found himself incarcerated, the other prisoners would be dead within a week due to his endless creativity when it came to designing weapons.

Mycroft received several welts from the confounded toy and Mother lost her china vase. William got seven whacks with it before Mother snapped it in two and used her sewing scissors to cut the snake into pieces before throwing it all in the bin. It wouldn't be the last time she disposed of his homemade weapons.

The Tuesday after they saw the film, Mycroft would be starting school in Brighton, which meant his belongings were packed neatly two days before. He would be in Year Ten.

His last night at home was long. He hadn't gone downstairs much, and every half hour, Billy would nick something else from him and hide it. Father was at work, and his mother was busy in the kitchen. He looked at his watch.

3:30

 _Bloody hell._

He flopped down on his bed with his arms spread out and he stared at the ceiling, trying to discern a pattern from the lines in the wood beams The state of his room was much better than it had been the last week, with his clothes folding in piles across his comforter. It made his stomach twist to think about his belongings strewn about. His shirts, trousers, under shirts, shorts, ties, and socks were all packed neatly in their suitcase. All accounted for.

The sound of the radio downstairs with Mother's mindless stacking of dishes and the spoon hitting the pan made his head pound so he sat up and his eyes fell on the space where he had set the Walkman.

Space. Which meant it was gone.

Now, Mycroft did not lose things which meant that someone had taken it.

The only conclusion was Billy.

He didn't bother checking to see if it had fallen behind the desk. he knew it hadn't. He also knew this was going to happen when he had not gotten his own Walkman like he had so reasonably requested.

He stormed out the door.

Billy's room was down at the very end of the hall. As always, the door was open, so Mycroft could tell he wasn't in there.

The state of the room was enough to give Mycroft a stomachache. It looked as though the room had belched and strewn every object out of the closet and chest. Clothes were everywhere, drawings littering the floor, and books lying open. Toys scattered across the floor.

It would have been easy to just give it a glance, see that neither Billy nor the Walkman were in there, and leave. But being Mycroft was never easy. The thought of the mess in this room would haunt him all night and that was poor use of his time.

So he picked up the picture books scattered beneath the bed and placed them back on the shelf, using the sailboat book end to keep them from toppling to the side. He stacked the crayon drawings and put all the markers and crayons back in their boxes. And dumped all the clothes in the hamper.

For good measure, he made the bed and straightened the rug. And put all the toys back in their box. Except the bumble bee. That went at the head of the bed. It's colors had faded over the years, and the wings were yellow from Billy sucking on them while he slept. He'd had the bee since he was a baby, and when he was learning to talk, couldn't say the /m/, so he called it his "bubble bee".

There was nothing left on the floor but a small briefcase. A quick look and he found that it was fully packed. Clothes had been stuffed inside it, along with a toothbrush and a bag of dog biscuits. He shut the case.

Stupid.

"Mum!" he called, thumping down the stairs.

"Kitchen!"

His mother was at the stove. The rest of the room was empty. Table empty, no toys on the floor.

He realized he was grinding his teeth. He had been trying to stop that lately. (Bad for the enamel, the dentist said.)

"Where's Billy?"

"Did you hear me?"

He turned to look at her. She was the type of woman that seemed taller than she actually was. And her fury, which could come out at the sight of mud on her floors or Billy leaving his shoes lying in the middle of the hallway, made her even taller. It was a frightening sight to behold, yet one he could not look away from, much like a bonfire. And just as fierce as her anger was her passion for rules in the household.

Her arms were crossed, the flannel hanging over the crook of her elbow.

He raised an eyebrow. He didn't realize she had been talking. "What?"

"I said I'm making a special dinner tonight."

"Oh." He stepped closer to the oven.

She slapped him away with a flick of the flannel across his belly. "Ah, ah! It's a surprise."

He headed to the door that let out to the back garden. "Stew," he blurted over his shoulder.

She threw down the rag. "Please _act_ surprised!"

He closed the kitchen door behind him. Back to business.

"Billy!" he yelled.

The swing was empty. The dog kennel too.

He stomped down the steps. "Where's the Stowaway!"

The brat! They had agreed. Mycroft would be the one to take it with him to school. Billy didn't even need it.

When the culprit did not reveal himself, he walked to the middle of the lawn and crossed his arms. "I'll tell Mum what you're planning!"

That did it. First, one leg dangled from the tree branch, then the other and the boy dropped to the grass below dressed, as always, in his pirate costume.

It had started last Halloween. Dad had found some of his old children's books in the attic and read some adventure story involving Redbeard the Bloody Baron, a fictional pirate. Billy loved the story so much that he had Father read it to him every night for two weeks. He changed Harold's name to Redbeard, in fact he had tried to change Mycroft's name to Blackfoot Jack, but Mum straightened that out of him quickly. And for Halloween and months after, he dressed as the pirate, Redbeard the Bloody Baron.

He had even drawn a mustache with marker beneath his nose. He lifted the eyepatch from his left eye. Mum had thrown away the old one because he wore it so much that he got an infection.

He sucked on his lower lip. "It's treasure."

Mycroft tapped his foot impatiently. "No it's not. It's expensive and we agreed that I get to take it. Return it."

Billy chewed on the inside of his cheek and stuffed his hand down the front of his shorts. He pulled out a piece of white paper and hopped over to Mycroft, hand outstretched for him to take it.

Mycroft snatched it from him and roughly unfolded it. It was the utility bill.

"No, no!" Billy grabbed it out of Mycroft's hand, like he had somehow been doing it wrong, and turned it over. Oh dear. Mummy would not be pleased. He had scrawled a crude treasure map on the blank side.

He shook his head and held it out for Billy. "I don't have time. And she will kill you."

"Theeen, you can't go." He smiled and rocked back and forth on his feet. He had lost his two front teeth a month before. At first he'd been excited- "Now I'm a real pirate!" - until he realized that without his teeth he could not pronounce certain words correctly and people couldn't understand him.

Mycroft snorted. "You think this would work?"

He stuck his lower lip out and shrugged. "Redbeard thought it was a good idea."

Mycroft crouched on one knee, down to his brother's level. How were they supposed to be siblings? Their hair was a bit similar, but his was more red and Billy's was blonde like Mum and Dad's, and it curled the instant he toweled it off after a bath. He was certain that if any stranger took a look at them, they would be mistaken for unrelated children. Especially with Mycroft's size.

But honestly, what four year old spent all his time playing pirate with a dog? Sneaking into his room to steal his belongings for a bit of sport?

"That's what happens when you listen to a dog's ideas. If you want your plans to work, you have to come up with them on your own." he folded up the map and leaned one elbow on his knee. He lowered his voice. he was sure Mum couldn't hear them, but better safe than sorry. "You know you can't run away."

Billy puckered his lips and spat on the grass, a habit he'd picked up when he had seen older boys in leather jackets doing it at the park. "'m not. I'm going with you."

Mycroft shook his head.

He stomped on the ground. His feet were dirty. He would have to wash them with the garden hose before he came in.

"I am!"

"What would you do? You can't read. Can't write. You can't take the dog with you."

"He's not big."

"He needs a kennel, and there's not room for one."

Billy's shoulders hunched up towards his ears. He was nervous. He did that around people he didn't know. Especially at church. He hid behind Mycroft so he wouldn't have to look at anyone.

His face was pink now, and he's angled his foot inward, very much like a child. "Will you miss him?"

Mycroft looked at the lazy thing, lounging beneath the tree. He shook his head.

He felt Billy's small fingers curled around his wrist. He was too big for them to go all the way around. When he had been a baby, he would squeeze Mycroft's finger. Mycroft didn't pull away. He hated when Billy was clingy, but he was hanging on to him now, just holding on to him.

His lower lip poked out "He don't want you to leave."

"Doesn't." He straightened up to his full height. "And I'm going anyway. So you better tell me where you put the Walkman."

"Why?"

He let out a deep huff. "Because I get to take it. That was the agreement."

"You don't have to go."

" Yes I do."

Billy's grip tightened. "No you don't."

He finally pried the fingers off his arm. "Don't argue, you're too slow."

He looked at his feet. His bare toes were clinging to the grass. "Won't you miss Redbeard?"

"Will."

The boy looked up. His nose was running. He wiped it on the hem of his shirt, smearing the black marker across his face.

Mycroft ducked his head and sighed. He reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He could see now that he needed comfort, so he offered the most comforting words he could manage.

"It's... not forever. I will be coming home winters and summers."

He shook his head. "Too long."

"It's school policy. The building closes during winters and summers so I have to."

"But can't you come home any before then?"

"I don't want to."

Billy actually took a step back. He slid the eyepatch from his face. "Why?"

Could he really not know? Mycroft took a seat on the swing, ignoring the way the ropes creaked, and looked at the small garden and the house.

Mother had only just retired from her position at the university that year, just in time for Mycroft to be heading off to a new school. He didn't mind, he didn't. At least she would be there for Billy. But Mycroft was done. He was ready to get started elsewhere.

He drew a circle in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. "I hate it here."

Billy crept closer to the swing. His face looked red. He was a pale child. He probably spent too long in the sun that afternoon.

"Everyone is exhausting." He looked at his brother. "I don't want to be stuck here, so I'm going to a school where I can focus on what's important."

"Oh. Okay." Billy crouched down and used his finger to poke two eyes and curve a frown inside the circle Mycroft had made. He looked up again and smiled, his tongue poking through the gap in his teeth, but he looked lost. Mycroft decided it would take far too long to explain so he let him be lost.

Sometimes he envied his brother. Billy didn't have his difficulties. He was content by simpler distractions. And Mum wasn't working now, so she was able to spend more time with him.

Sometimes Mycroft was cruel. He teased him about his lisp, and the fact that he was so slow. He once tripped Billy when he was being particularly annoying. That he had fallen and busted his lip open was not Mycroft's fault.

But she had decided to retire after Mycroft had been accepted. And even then, he knew he could not spend another year of continuous exposure to peers who made him want to crawl into his skin and die. It wasn't the teasing. It was the stupidity. He would rather be insulted by one intelligent human than by an idiot mob, and then return to a home where he had to put up with mediocre parents.

Another year and he would have set himself on fire.

No. William had it far easier. What was four months away in a life of a four year old? He wouldn't even remember it come later years.

He crossed his arms again and kept his voice even. The last time he had tried to sound stern with Billy he had deepened it and it cracked on the last vowel. Billy had burst into laughter.

"Where did you put my Walkman?"

Billy grinned. "In Mummy's recipe box."

"In the kitchen?"

"No!" he scoffed, as if Mycroft was the moron. 'I buried it with Redbeard's sticks."

Mycroft stared at him. "She really is going to kill you."

"I needed a treasure chest an' my plastic one was too small."

And that was how Mycroft ended up having to throw away a pair of trousers and washing the dirt off his hands and having to wrestle Billy naked under the hose to wash off his filthy body before they could go in for dinner.

And the next day Mycroft was gone.

x

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To Be Continued

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 **Comments? If you liked it, please review.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I own nothing from BBC Sherlock :(**

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x

x

 **Date: Unimportant**

 **Time: ?**

 **He's back. _He's back._ **_He's back..._

Sleep has chased him this far, and he knows he cannot go for much longer. His transport is weakening, reaction timing slowed, and thoughts becoming less coordinated. An abominable headache has been building for hours now. He needs to go home.

Big Ben chimed thrice just a few minutes ago. He's forgotten what day it is. It doesn't matter. Doesn't matter. All that matters is the work. But not really because his body is betraying him again. Perhaps he should stop in a pub to warm up. But... no, they're all closed.

 _Stupid._

The London chill has dredged up a fog too thick for a cab to find its way through, so he walks. He knows the veins of this city well. He has swum through the dredges of its bowels to reach the cesspool of criminals too many times to count. It is his home, the smog ingrained into his lungs and the pulse of the hustle and bustle from everyday life in tune with his. He should not feel so empty to be back, not when he thought he would never see her glory ever again. But tonight, nothing but the cold cuts through his hollow shell to reach his very center.

He's turned his coat collar up even though there's no reason to be Sherlock Holmes now. Right now, he's just a very cold man. His toes and fingertips are numb.

God he could use a joint. Just to feel the smoke in his breath, warming him from the inside out and calming his torrenting thoughts. Just one. Or better. He knows were he can get a few milligrams of coke, take it home and snort it through a one pound note. And just clear his goddamn head. But that might not be a good idea. The combination of the cold and his dehydration might result in a nosebleed. He could dilute it and just go in through the chemist's way.

The work has always been enough to distract him from his other addiction. But he knows he's not bored. His need is like John's. The need to block out what he doesn't want to think about. It's too much. Sometimes he must return to old habits to keep himself afloat. Mycroft, clever as he thinks he is, only knows about 3 relapses. He wouldn't have found out about two of them if John hadn't snitched.

A chill runs through him and his whole body shakes so violently that he has to stop and lean against a building. Just when he thinks it's passed, his stomach roils and, after gagging, he spits out watery bile onto the pavement.

He hasn't eaten in a while. Maybe there is something...

 _WorkWorkWork. Work. ThedevilangelsMissme?Moriartysayhellotothevirus..._

His head pounds. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, muttering a weary, "Dammit," and straightens up again. He shuts his eyes to dissuade the dizziness and those dead eyes laugh at him like gaping mouths from inside his eyelids. He blinks a few times and takes cautious steps to make sure he won't topple.

He could always ride the tube, but it would only make the dizziness worse. Plus, in his state, being in the underground wouldn't make him any safer. Muggers know when to spot one who's had a few too many or who's trying to sleep it off.

Idiot.

 _You're lucky he didn't throw you back in the house._

Oh, that had been unpleasant.

Is that what Mycroft calls "being there"? Hm. Being there indeed. Sherlock only got to call him once while he was stuck in there. He had to beg them, beg. Mycroft told him not to call again, which cut him a bit personally. Not that Mycroft had ever been keen on talking to him much before anyway, but the mobile phone companies made good money on the man because he personally had five that Sherlock knew of. One for personal use, one for the terrorists, one for the government, and plenty more. All for conversation. Sherlock can look on his mobile phone from the last year and count on one hand the number of incoming calls from Mycroft. One outgoing from Sherlock, but then again, Sherlock hates calling people.

He gets confused when he can't read facial expressions. He can deduce certain qualities about a person through their voice. If they smoke, where they're from, if they're afraid. But everything about them is written in their clothes, in their makeup, in their body language. And Sherlock can deduce none of it if they speak to him through the phone. Or if they're being sarcastic or making fun of him.

But Sherlock hates talking to Mycroft even in person, so one phone call a year is far too much.

A few years ago Mummy had required Mycroft and Sherlock to attend Daddy's seventieth. They had missed the last two for good reason. When Sherlock tried to refuse, she'd scoffed and said, "To think there was a time when you bawled for days when you couldn't be around him anymore."

Sherlock doesn't believe this. He's not the type of man to forget, but this seems preposterous. He has never missed the company of his brother and Mycroft has always repelled him. The only reason he sometimes tolerates him is because there is no one else smart enough.

It was because of Dad's seventieth that they did not go to any family gatherings for many years. Mummy almost dropped the phone when Sherlock suggested that they have Christmas together with the newly wed Watsons, and to invite Mycroft. But only so he could steal his laptop. He knew he would have refused if Sherlock asked him, that's why he told Mummy so she could order him. Perhaps it was childish, but they don't know any better.

 _Your loss would break my heart._

He most likely didn't know what he was saying at the time. The sedative was kicking in. He really is getting slower. Middle age. Sherlock dreads when it happens to him.

But there was something in those words, something so staggering that it made him hitch on the next drag of the cigarette. Because despite his money, and his power, and his constant need to interfere with Sherlock's life to prevent the sully of the Holmes name, if there is one thing Mycroft does not have it is a heart.

And the goddamn overdose on the plane happened and only managed to make him doubt even more. Because how could Mycroft care? Why was he being like this? Was it manipulation? He had always been a master of manipulation, but instead of tricking him so he could get the last biscuit, they were now playing chess with the pawns of political intrigue. Sherlock misses how simple their games used to be.

He passes a kiosk that has a stack of newspapers tied for the next day. The headline screams in black bold font from down below.

 **Criminal Mastermind Returned from the Dead?**

Mere speculations that arose after the the head of MI5 stated at a public conference that someone had hacked into the networks and released the footage. That James Moriarty is dead. That they are doing everything in their investigative powers to find the culprit. That we are all safe.

Sherlock knows why the culprit won't hacked in again to tell them the truth. Whoever it was, they knew how the masses worked. Knew that all they had to do was sit back, and watch their pieces dance.

He has played terrible, terrible games in the past. This one will dwarf the others in enormity and consequence.

The vibrations from his phone jolt him like an electric shock. He pulls it out and winces at how bright the screen is in comparison to the dim street lamps.

 **Anything?**

 **JW**

There is a sinking feeling in his stomach. He doesn't want to tell John. Sherlock puts it back in his pocket. They are counting on him, and he has nothing to show for it. It was his job, it was why they brought him back. But that left the question about what would happen when he served his purpose. He pushes that thought back in its drawer. No time to think about what will be. All that matters is the now.

 _I'll always be there for you._

He grumbles and taps his temple in an effort to get the voice to vanish.

The echo sounds far too loud and suddenly the street lamps blur in his vision. The walkway seems to tilt, so he has to stop. He nearly collapses on a stoop leading up to some flats and puts his forehead on his knees. He shuts his eyes and waits for the berating in his head to stop. To calm himself.

This too shall pass.

He blinks slowly, staring at the dark fabric of his trousers. He hears a dog bark, quick without any real threat behind it. When his vision goes back to normal he looks up, and a pudgy teenager with red hair stands across from him and glares at him.

Sherlock starts violently backwards with a shout. Those eyes, still so cold even with that youthful face have the chilling aspects of a horror film. His heart skips several beats. He knows the boy isn't really there. The uniform he wears is from the early 80s, matched by the fact that a pair of headphones around his neck lead to a blue Walkman clipped to his belt.

There are no ghosts. There are no ghosts.

This shouldn't be happening. Withdrawals don't do this, drugs do this.

The apparition glares at him and finally moves. It crosses his arms over his chest. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock shakes his head. His gloved hands slip on the railing. "Nothing."

"Liar."

He hurries to get his feet under him. "I-I didn't mean to."

Myke stabs a finger at him and thumps him hard across the head. Sherlock ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut. "You're not here," he whispers.

Myke huffs and Sherlock can hear him tapping his foot on the pavement. "We don't have _time_ for you to sit and cry, Billy."

He shakes his head. "Mum'll find out."

"Yeah. But you face the consequences like a man."

This isn't real. This was his head playing tricks on him. He finally gets a grip on the railing bolted into the stairs and drags himself up.

"Not here," he mutters.

"Billy where you going?"

He passes the imitation, careful not to touch it, and flees down the street.

"Get back here, idiot!"

His heart pounds in his chest when he finally slows and looks behind him, the stoop is empty. He's shaking, noticeably.

"Not real," he whispers and wraps his coat further around himself. "Not real."

His Mind Palace was turning against him, creating things that he did not need to remember. First the shoebox and now this. Why? Why bring up something that he didn't remember? It clearly didn't matter!

He pulls his phone out again and yanks his glove off despite the cold. He doesn't need to scroll through his contacts. Part of him hopes he'll just let it ring and ignore him. It would be easier that way, that's how they've always done it.

But there is no one else he can talk to. And he needs answers, right now.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he taps the call icon. There's something he needs to say to him away. It's been eating away at him for days, whether he wants to admit it or not.

The fourth ring is interrupted by a cough. "Hallo?" His voice is scratchy from sleep. Sherlock's heart jumps and he feels a deep ache in his chest.

He steps closer to a shop off the pavement and leans against the wall. "It's me."

"Oh hey. Hey. What... what's wrong? Quite late for a ring. Oh, it's Corrie, hon. Yes... I know, I know. But she's got something to tell me. Just go on back to sleep." A sigh that rattles the receiver. "Hang on, let me go to another room."

Sherlock waits. His father is a good liar. Always has been. Though he does remember that spat with Mum in '84, but he technically never _lied_. But secrets, secrets hurt someone.

His father clears his throat, voice lower. "Now, what's this about? You alright?"

"Fine." Mycroft told them everything they needed to know. That he drugged them and stole the laptop, and he would be dealt with to the fullest extent of his crimes. The rest were state secrets.

"We saw it on the news that -"

"I know. Listen." He gulps. The truth is, he doesn't know what to say. His father won't patronize him, he knows, but he is still trying to sort through the web in his head. _Think, idiot._

"I'm sorry... about Christmas. I am." Good. That was true. People are supposed to say sorry if they do something wrong. And drugging his family ruined everyone's Christmas, which didn't really affect him, but it hurt them and he didn't really want to hurt them so he had to say sorry.

There. Now they can let that bit go.

"Well... I'm not sure what to make of that, but thank you." He sounds surprised. "But son, you don't call at three in the morning to say sorry, do you."

Clever. Not as clever as Mum, never had been, but still clever. So now comes the moment of truth, and Sherlock still doesn't know what to ask. Perhaps at the beginning would be best. He still doesn't recall much, but there is something in the back of his mind palace. Something old, with wires sticking out and faded buttons.

"When Myke left for school, he left a Walkman didn't he."

"A Walkman?"

"Yeah." Sherlock squirms, unsure of his father's tone. Maybe confusion. He hopes he won't have to clarify, because even he can't answer that bit. He doesn't remember why he stored it there. It fell out of the shoebox. He hasn't opened it in years. Not since Uni. He didn't need it.

But then a few days ago, it was there, and the old Stowaway was lying there in the middle of his version of Parliament.

His father laughs, but Sherlock fails to see why this is funny. "Erm... I think. I mean, my memory's not what it used to be, you know."

"Yes." He vaguely recalls Mummy mentioning Father losing a... something.

"Mm. I think I remember a Walkman. He wanted one before he went off to school. Why are you asking?"

Sherlock tilts his head back against the wall, feeling the brick grind into his scalp. "Investigation."

"Oh." He yawns. "Your investigations don't normally involve something like that." Unimportant, childish, stupid.

Sherlock won't answer that. "He left the Walkman," he says instead.

"Well... I don't rightly know. You could ask."

Sherlock frowns. Now that is certainly out of the question. He will not ask Mycroft for anything.

"You could put Mum on."

Dad snorts. "Son, it's three in the morning and she's spitting. With you. You really think that's a good idea?"

Well at least she would remember, but now that he thinks about it, he realizes she may crucify him through satellite connection. Mum always was protective about her parties, and the fact that he drugged them all at the Christmas dinner would bring about a wrath too terrible to behold. Even if he said sorry. That has never held up much for him.

His father sighs. "Son, why are you asking about Walkmans?"

Perhaps years of dealing with his ridiculous questions have accustomed him to remaining patient with the random puzzle pieces Sherlock tosses to him. He doesn't mean to, but they can't keep up. John tries. John loses patience though. His father has never lost his temper.

His tone is so gentle. Sherlock has an image of him sitting at the kitchen table, one hand on his knee looking down at his bloody lip, gently asking what they had done now.

Sherlock's chest aches at the memory. "It's nothing."

"Liar."

Sherlock's eyes burn. He quickly rubs them even though there's no way he would see them.

"You called me for help. And I gave it. You don't pick fights with men who have answers."

He nods. "Yessir." His voice is rough. He was forgetting his place a bit.

"Now, what's this all about? Tell me or I'll put Mum on."

He's always hated this. Truth has never been easy for him, though not nearly as bad as Mycroft, who lied for a profession. Sherlock only withheld truths so he could find a bigger one. But that wouldn't help much here when he demanded the whole truth.

"There was a... a confrontation a few days ago. I needed to clarify a bit he said."

"What did he say?"

"It's private."

"I see."

Father would hold him to this. _A man's private life is just that. Private. And we will hold him to that._

He wouldn't pry. But Sherlock wishes that for once, he would. He doesn't want to keep this secret. He doesn't want to go back to the house, Mycroft couldn't force him to anyway now, but he doesn't want to be alone. But perhaps this truth won't hurt as much as the others.

"I overdosed."

He doesn't know why he said it. Too many secrets, too many lies over the years.

The silence on the other end is so long that Sherlock thinks he hung up. But then, "Are you alright?"

No yelling, no reprimanding, no disappointment - though Sherlock knows he's one already so it wouldn't matter anyway. But this he cannot stand. Why? Why must his father torment him like this?

"Don't tell Mum." He feels so small now. God, he's nearly forty and still he's begging his father to secrecy like when he was five.

"No, no. I won't. You're usually careful. What happened?"

The breaths rattle out of Sherlock. He wipes his nose. "I..." He breathes deeply and rakes his fingers through his hair. He clears his throat. "It was a mistake. It's fine now."

"So, this bit with you and Myke. That's what this was about. Did it bring up something? About this Walkman?"

He shakes his head. "I've just been thinking."

"Hm. It doesn't do well to think about our mistakes. Bad form there."

He knows this. It's what's kept him going all these years.

"Maybe try to get some sleep, yeah? It's pretty late."

"Yes."

"Son? Give your mum a ring tomorrow."

"Yes."

"Good. Love you."

"Bye."

He pulls his glove back on - his hand is completely numb now - and tucks his chin down into his scarf to warm his face somewhat. His breath floats in a frigid mist from his mouth.

While walking back to the flat, his phone buzzes once more. He doesn't bother looking.

And as London sleeps, he tries to remember why such an insignificant contraption such as a Walkman would make its way into his Mind Palace like a nostalgic keepsake. He knows better than to store unneeded information.

Something drifts into his hair and he looks up. He stands outside an unknown flat, far away from his own, the street lamp illuminating his sole figure. It's snowing.

He wonders if Mycroft thinks about his mistakes.

x

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To Be Continued...

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